


Saturday Morning

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (f_ing_ruthless_baz)



Series: Carry On Ficlets [10]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bus, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_ing_ruthless_baz/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: Baz takes the same bus home from the university library every Saturday morning, the first bus of the day. But Baz hates change, and the cute new bus driver is a change he could do without.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Ficlets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453180
Comments: 14
Kudos: 204
Collections: Golden Days: a Simon Snow Series zine





	Saturday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> My _belated_ contribution to the Golden Days zine. (It was seriously 97.8% written and then I crashed as a human and couldn't finish it until the re-release, lol.)
> 
> Just some fluffy nonsense.
> 
> (Also I didn't remember that I have a ficlet called "Sunday Morning" until after I submitted this, but they have nothing to do with each other.)

**BAZ**

I don’t do well with change.

January is always the worst. Everyone is getting wrapped up in this _“New Year, New Me”_ bullshit, making superficial changes left and right that throw me off-kilter. My usual café, for instance, always takes their autumnal Pumpkin Mocha Breve—my absolute favourite—off their menu in exchange for a superfood smoothie, to cash in on everyone’s health resolutions for the new year.

And now this. A new bus driver on my route. He looks about fifteen, too. (He’s probably in his twenties, to be fair, but compared to all the other drivers, he’s practically a foetus.)

“Good morning!” he says, far too cheerfully for the hour.

Everything about his presence is throwing me, as I fumble to get my bus pass out of my wallet. He’s new. He’s chipper at half five in the morning. He’s _really goddamn cute_.

This isn’t my routine.

I don’t say anything in response. I just tap my pass and sit down in the first seat I find—which is the very first seat, because there’s no one else on the bus. (At least I can rely on some things staying the same.)

He tries to ask me a question, I think, but I’m already putting my noise-cancelling headphones on.

_New Year, Same Old Me._

**SIMON**

I’m not surprised when Headphones Guy shows up again this week.

It’s only my fourth week on this route—from the university to the town centre, first thing Saturday morning. It’s a pretty quiet route, most of the time, and the very first bus of the day is always empty. Except for one person.

One person who barely acknowledges me and shoves his giant headphones on as soon as he’s seated. Which is fine. To each their own.

I still tell him, _“Good morning,”_ every time. It seems like the right thing to do. Even if sometimes I want to smack that look of bored superiority off his pretty face. (But I think I’d get fired for that.) (Not that I’d actually do it anyway.)

So, yeah, I’m not surprised when Headphones Guy shows up, at the same time as always, despite the fact that he doesn’t strike me as a morning person. I am surprised, however, when he doesn’t put his headphones on today.

He just walks on, taps his pass, and sits in his usual spot. I can see him in the mirror above me; if I turn my head to the left, I could look right at him. Probably not a good idea when I’m driving, though.

But I do glance up in the mirror again when we hit a red light. He still doesn’t have his headphones on.

“Where do you always go this early on a Saturday?” I ask him before I can think better of it.

“Home,” he says, staring out at the darkness through the window.

“Walk of shame, eh?” I say with a laugh, and I regret it immediately. “Er, sorry, bad joke.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

I’m not surprised.

**BAZ**

Ever since my headphones’ battery died right before my Saturday morning bus ride a few weeks ago, I’ve stopped wearing them on that bus. I’d have thought I would hate that the driver seems to think my lack of headphones is an open invitation to have a conversation with me, but it turns out he’s more than happy carrying the conversation himself.

I’ve learned more about him than I ever needed to know, in the past month. Such as how he’s new to driving a bus—obviously—and really likes these early morning shifts for the peace and quiet. (That’s admittedly a bit of a shock, considering how desperate he seems for someone to talk to.)

I really should put my headphones back on. Let him know I’m not interested in his chatter.

But I don’t.

“Do you work nights, then?” he asks after an unusually silent stretch of the journey.

His question catches me off-guard a little. “No, I—No,” I say. And then, because I’m a constant disappointment to myself, I add, “I’m a student.”

He glances up at the mirror above him to eye me curiously. “They’ve got classes in the middle of the night?”

“Grad student,” I clarify. “The library’s quiet on Friday nights and it’s the only time I can get focused work done, for the most part.”

“You spend the whole night in the library?” he asks in disbelief. “Do you sleep there?”

I glare up at his reflection, with an eyebrow raised, and catch his eye again. “Do I look like I ever sleep?”

“Er… Maybe not loads…” He chuckles awkwardly.

I still don’t put my headphones on.

**SIMON**

I’ve sort of gotten used to this. Headphones Guy— _Baz_ , he said his name was—still gets on the first bus every Saturday morning from the university, only he hasn’t put his headphones on for over a month now. I think maybe he likes chatting with me, even though he rarely contributes much. That’s okay, though. I’m fine just telling him about the silly things that happen to me throughout my day and catching a glimpse of that suppressed smirk of amusement on his face when I look up in the mirror.

It’s one of the best parts of my day, honestly.

His mood seemed darker last week, though, and he put his headphones on before I could even ask why. (I tried not to take it personally.) We spent the rest of the ride in silence, right back where we started…

I expected him to do the same this week—I assume he’s sick of me, I suppose—but I’m relieved when he doesn’t. I’ve grown to enjoy these early morning chats, and I didn’t want them to end.

Still, I don’t know what to say after, “ _Good morning_ ,” today.

I’m trying to think of something clever when he says, unprompted, “I’d like to apologize.”

“For what?” I ask, as a feeling of dread sinks down to the bottom of my stomach. That’s never a good start to a conversation, in my experience.

“Last week, I—” he begins, but hesitates to continue. “It’s just the stress of everything. I’m supposed to finish my thesis this term, and… Well, you don’t want to hear about all this, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” I tell him, sneaking a look at him in the mirror. “I vent about shitty passengers, so you can vent about this.” (I quickly remember that I’m not technically supposed to _curse_ in front of the passengers, but he doesn’t seem fazed.)

I can tell he’s torn between wanting to unload this weight, and not wanting to talk about himself, but he eventually gives in. He barely pauses for a breath before we arrive at his stop. Which is fine; I like hearing him talk.

I could get used to this.

**BAZ**

I don’t know how Snow does it—that’s the bus driver’s name, it turns out. (Simon Snow. How wretchedly adorable.)

We spend the bus ride alternately venting about the shit each of us has dealt with that week, and by the end, I always feel a bit more optimistic about things. He’s magic, or something.

This week he’s very animatedly telling me about the service dog in training that was on the bus yesterday, and the way his face lights up when he talks about puppies should be criminal. But it makes my looming deadline feel less all-consuming, like maybe there will be more to my life when it’s over. And maybe it will actually be over, soon.

I don’t really like to think about that, though. The end of it all.

“You know, I’ve always wanted a labrador,” Snow says, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him.

I pinch my mouth shut to keep the smile off my face, even though he can’t see me.

“So have I,” I say under my breath.

**SIMON**

Baz is more sullen than usual today, but I know he gets like this sometimes.

“Thesis stress?” I ask when he takes his seat and stares out the window next to him. “You’ll be finished with it soon, though, won’t you?”

“I am,” he says.

“You are what?”

“Finished with it.”

I watch him in the mirror another moment before pulling away from the stop. “That’s good, though, right?”

“I suppose.” His answers are clipped, like when we first started talking—I thought that after all his ranting the past few weeks, I’d get more out of him.

“You don’t seem to think it’s that good…” I say slowly, stealing another brief glance at him.

“I… I like my routine, is all,” he says. “I don’t like when things change.”

I get that sinking feeling of dread in my stomach again. His routine will change now that he’s moving on to the next stage in his life. A stage where his routine no longer overlaps with mine.

“Right…” I say, quietly enough that I’m not sure he’s heard me. “Me neither.”

We don’t speak for the rest of the ride—personally, I have no idea what to say. I can’t exactly tell a random passenger that I’m going to miss them, can I?

He’s not random, though; he’s Baz. Headphones Guy. My Saturday morning companion. I barely know him at all, and yet I feel like I know him well.

But it would be ridiculous to tell him any of this, so I say nothing. I’m just a bus driver, after all. He’ll move on to bigger and better things and I’ll still be here.

I hear him rustling through his book bag when we’re a few blocks from his stop, and when I look over at him on a red light, he’s scribbling something on a scrap of paper. (Though I’m guessing it’s probably very neat handwriting and not _scribbles_.)

He stands abruptly when I pull over at his stop, and he shoves the folded scrap of paper towards me on his way out. “Thank you,” he says. “This… Just—Thank you.”

“Have a good one, Baz,” I say, when he’s already walking away before I can even look at what he’s given me.

He turns back for a nod once he’s on the pavement and then takes off down the road in his usual direction. I quickly unfold the paper and find neat handwriting— _I knew it_ —below a number.

_If you ever want to vent about passengers, off-duty._

_—Baz_

I fold the note and slip in my pocket, a grin spreading across my face.

Perhaps this isn’t the end after all.


End file.
